


It Strengthens the Heart

by laughingd0g



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Draco Malfoy, Cursed Harry Potter, Fluff, Herbalist Draco Malfoy, M/M, Magical Creatures, Magical House, Potions student Draco Malfoy, magical everything?, magical plants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingd0g/pseuds/laughingd0g
Summary: It was a grey morning in March when Harry Potter appeared on Draco’s doorstep.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RamaThorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RamaThorn/gifts).



> This is not completed, but is thoroughly outlined. No planned release schedule, but this is a gift for a _rather_ insistent Hufflepuff who has vowed to hold me accountable for finishing. (8/20/20: I should probably add that the end goal is ~100k words, and--in order to be transparent [ha!]--I'll say that this will likely be complete within the next 12 months, barring life complications.)
> 
> HUGE thanks to the incredibly talented: Lily ([triggerlil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/pseuds/triggerlil)) for beta-reading and Flux ([fluxweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluxweed/pseuds/fluxweed)) for britpicking! (They reviewed an earlier draft, so any mistakes are my own.)
> 
> Rama, thank you for being such a good friend. How the hell was I lucky enough to meet you?? I'm amazed every day. I hope you enjoy this. :)

It was a grey morning in March when Harry Potter appeared on Draco’s doorstep.

Draco woke that day to the insistent call of a bird. The room was freezing. A tenacious chill sharpened the air and reached under the covers to gnaw at his toes. He dove again for sleep, groping for the edges of unconsciousness as if it were a blanket he could burrow into.

But the bird called and called, an ear-splitting trill that came from much closer than it should have, as if it’d flown into his room.

At that thought, he cracked open his eyes. They stung in the chill.

He groaned. Muttered. Braced himself and threw back the covers. Cursed when his feet hit the bare wood of the floor.

An unpleasant but familiar feeling weighed him down. A sense of _foreboding_. He hoped it was just the unease of waking to a frigid room.

In the bathroom, he found the window open. Outside it, perched in the bare branch of the aspen, the tiny bird shrilled. Draco cursed the house. Cursed some more as he tried to close the window, but it wouldn’t budge. The house had a mind of its own, and it was letting spring in.

“Except it _isn’t_ spring, not yet,” he argued with it.

Finally, he gave up the attempt and had a shower amidst swirling currents of chill air. The water, at least, was steaming hot.

He was still cursing as he dressed and went down the stairs, though the air had returned to a sane temperature now that he’d recast the warming charms. Complaining distracted him from the cold weight of foreboding in his gut. It had only grown heavier during the shower.

By the time he stepped into the quiet kitchen, the feeling that something _significant_ was going to happen had spread to his elbow joints, his chest, and the corners of his jaw. He stopped in the middle of the dim space and shook himself.

The nice thing about living alone was there was no one around to see him.

He filled the kettle. The best thing to do when he woke with this feeling was to get on with his morning. Sometimes it meant an unexpected storm was on the way. Sometimes it meant they’d be out of eggs down in the village.

He knew he’d been dreaming before he woke. The strands of it stuck and pulled away like a cobweb at the back of his mind. If he grasped for them, they collapsed and disappeared. So if he’d dreamed of the impending crisis, he wouldn’t know.

Anyway. He’d long given up trying to guess what significant event was going to take place when he felt this way. He used to spend half the day trying to figure it out, only to be wrong and be surprised anyway.

So he measured out the loose leaf and pulled down a plate and scowled at the fire that roared to life in the hearth, as if the house were happy now that Draco was up.

“Where was that while I was sleeping?” he groused. The fire crackled merrily in response, and he could only sigh.

Just his luck he would decide to move to the outskirts of a muggle village and, when hunting for a cottage, happen upon the only magical house for miles.

At the time, he’d thought it was luck. Incredibly good luck, at that. But some days he wondered if he managed the house, or vice versa.

The kettle was just beginning to chuckle as the water heated when Draco heard the rattle of a familiar engine coming up the drive. Sighing, he dumped the loose leaf back into its jar and took the canister of coffee out of a high cabinet. Draco did not like coffee. But some of his customers did, this one in particular. He poured the grounds into the cafetière, poured the water over them, and set it aside to steep. He added a generous helping of sugar and milk into his biggest mug and went to get the door, wondering if this was why the house had woken him early, if this was the reason for the feeling of _significance_ in his gut.

Old Man Edward limped up the path. He grinned at the sight of Draco.

“Fine weather we’re having,” he said, which was his standard greeting, rain or shine, but Draco looked dubiously at the overcast sky anyway, and Edward laughed. “Heard me coming up the road, did you?”

Draco smiled thinly. “The sheep in the next county heard you coming up the road.”

And he couldn’t help it; his gaze skated over Edward’s shoulder to the empty path behind the man, to the empty cab of the truck. His shoulders dropped. “Come in, then. Coffee?”

The brown eyes gleamed approval. “Two teaspoons of sugar—”

“And three tablespoons of milk.” Draco closed the door behind them. “Left Kara at home, then?” He hoped he sounded the right amount acerbic and not at all disappointed or concerned.

Edward grinned at him. “Too early yet. Though she’d have been happy to see you. You’re all she’s been talking about these last few days.”

“Really,” Draco said. He moved past Edward into the kitchen to pour the coffee, pretending the old man’s words didn’t fill him with unaccountable pleasure. But, considering the gap-toothed smile sent his way, Draco probably wasn’t as successful as he’d hoped.

Draco set the steaming mug of coffee on the scarred table, and Edward sat gratefully in front of it.

Draco refilled the kettle at the tap deliberately by hand. After the first unexpected visit from Edward and his granddaughter Kara three years ago, Draco had removed anything overtly magical from the kitchen and sitting room, so the biggest risk of breaking the Statute remained forgetting himself and casting a bit of casual magic out of habit.

“What can I do for you this morning?” Draco said. “I doubt you came for my coffee, though I appreciate the company.”

“It’s fine coffee,” Edward sighed into his cup, closing his eyes. Then his face lost its good humor and he set down the cup. “We’ve got a cold going around town. A chest thing.”

“Ah.” And suddenly a lot of the past week made sense. “I think I have what you need.”

The smile returned. Edward lifted the mug in salute. “You almost always do.”

“ _Almost_?” 

“Always,” Edward conceded. “But we can’t have the praise going to your head. You might decide you’re too good for us and leave for the big city.”

Draco snorted. He folded his arms at his chest. “They wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

Edward grinned. “Probably not.”

Draco let himself smirk in response. “You want to rest there while I fetch what you need?”

But the old man was already standing. “Rest? Plenty of that—”

“When you die,” Draco finished for him dryly. Then, in warning: “It’s the same as it’s always been. Nothing’s changed.”

“Just the way I like things.”

Draco, walking ahead of him, rolled his eyes. But he smiled while the old man couldn’t see.

As promised, the herbal preparation room hadn’t changed much in the three weeks since Edward had last visited. That didn’t stop the old man from looking around like it was his first time. The appreciation and wonder on the worn face secretly pleased Draco. It allowed him to glimpse the room the way a visitor must: the long work table in the middle, the shelves of jars filled with dried herbs, the racks of tinctures, the boxes of empty glass bottles and blocks of beeswax, the jugs of alcohol. The room smelled of herbs infused in brandy, of honey and menthol and something bitter.

The room looked organized but well-used. Draco gave silent thanks for the extra time he’d spent cleaning the grand mess from the week before. Though, many implements were still down out of the cabinets within easy reach. Bowls, ladles, thermometers, stirring rods, and funnels: all the tools needed in the muggle art of remedy-making. Boxes packed with jars of salve and bottles of tincture lined the side wall, now stacked three high. Draco had spent the winter making the preparations from herbs he’d harvested earlier in the season. Draco liked the satisfaction of filling empty jars with medicine, and then empty boxes with full jars, and he liked the exhaustion that came with long hours spent at quiet tasks, but he was ready to be done bending over the tables, pouring and measuring. He was ready to spend his days in the garden.

“You’ve been busy,” Edward said, taking in the sight of the stacked boxes. That was the one thing that had changed since the old man’s last visit—the height of Draco’s stock.

“Busy enough.” Draco went to one of the shelves, bent, and pulled out a tray. “Here we are.”

“Usnea” read the label in Draco’s neatest handwriting. He counted the number of bottles in the tray and checked that they were all the same type of tincture, then added a few more remedies for sore throat and cough. 

Draco had collected the usnea after a storm came through two weeks ago and scattered tree branches over the ground. The branches had been covered in the fresh green lichen, and Draco had collected as much as he could because working with plants had taught him two things. One: the plant world tended to supply whatever remedy he would most need. And two: never waste an opportunity. At the time, he hadn’t needed all of that usnea, but there it was, presenting itself to him, so he took it home and tinctured it.

Normally, the alcohol infusion would take far longer to sit—several weeks, at least—but Draco had a spell for quickening it, and what the muggles didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them (or break the Statute). He didn’t always rush the infusion process, but something at the back of his mind had nagged at him until he did.

And so here he was two weeks later, faced with the problem in need of his solution.

“A tablespoon of _this_ three times a day to clear up the infection. A tea made with _this_ as often as needed to soothe the throat. Same with this, for cough. Add as much honey as you’d like; it’ll help.”

“I think I can keep all that straight.”

“I have every faith in you. However, here are the written directions.”

Draco was already looking forward to his cup of tea. He’d had plans for toast, too—maybe with some of the blackberry preserves from last year’s crop, a gift from Edward’s wife, Elizabeth. She’d given him currant jam, as well, and raspberry—enough to last all winter and into spring, as long as Draco didn’t slather it onto his toast too thickly every morning, which took some discipline. If there was one thing he had learned during his years of studying potions and legilimency and the art of schooling his emotions, it was discipline.

So as Draco followed Edward from the room, he was thinking about which kind of jam he’d treat himself to. Of the tea, there was no question. Earl Grey was the only clear choice.

Except, instead of turning left down the hall towards the front door, Edward turned right, and Draco had to double-step to catch up.

“I have to see what your garden’s got up to,” the old man said. “Do you still have that great big blackberry bramble?”

“Er—”

Draco only half-heard the question, busy as he was dodging around the old man to precede him down the hall. There would be no stopping him now; Draco had learned not to bother trying to redirect him. Better luck herding erumpants. His mind sped forward, cataloging the contents of the hall and garden. He didn’t keep _this_ part of the house primed for surprise muggle visits, and with the arrival of spring, he’d been spending every nonrainy moment outdoors—and even some of the rainy ones, as well, with an umbrella charm—and thus the cottage was unusually cluttered.

“No need to worry, I’ve seen a bit of mess before,” Edward said.

“That’s very nice for you,” Draco said, depositing the box of herbal remedies onto an upholstered bench. He made a face at the curious portrait of the duchess. Her eyes widened, and she went still.

Behind him, Edward said, “Funny, I’d say the old girl looks surprised! It’s like she takes on a different expression every time I’m here.”

“Ha. Yes, quite. Very funny, our imaginations.” He spotted the self-sweeping broom, which was stuck against the furniture again, nudging against the bottom of the grandfather clock, and he knocked it out of the way with his foot. He cast a swift disillusionment charm at it and at the metal bird fluttering its wings on the side table.

They arrived at the back door, and Draco felt a moment of panic as he glanced out the square window panes and spied the silver bars of the creature cages gleaming in the overcast light. Edward had slowed behind him—oh, he had paused to inspect the portrait; Draco _had_ to move that thing no matter how much the duchess wanted to have a view of the garden and the front door both—and so Draco took that moment to flick his wand at his hip, causing the cages to disappear from view. Edward tromped up behind him just as Draco slid his wand back into his pocket. There was a twinkle in the old man’s eye, which Draco found suspicious.

“Looks like you’re getting ready to plant,” Edward said, stepping out into the garden behind Draco.

Draco held back a more biting reply. “It’s that time of year,” he said, mildly.

Pots were stacked near the work table. Next to them stood a wheelbarrow filled with potting soil. The air above the wheelbarrow shimmered lightly, and Draco belatedly remembered the shield charm he’d placed over it so the soil wouldn’t get soaked by the rain. Wincing, he covertly cast a _finite incantatem_ in its direction. He’d have to remember to replace the spell, or he’d have to waste another hour casting drying and dampening charms to get the soil back to the optimum level of moisture.

When he turned back, Edward had already stepped farther into the garden, making his way towards the leggy young wiggentree, the one he’d been meaning to place in a new pot—or get into the ground, if he could decide where he wanted it. Edward leaned towards the thin branches.

“Looks like a fine young rowan tree you have here.”

“Ah. Ha. Yes.” Draco forced himself to approach calmly. Thank goodness, it _did_ rather look like a muggle rowan tree, especially at the end of winter without its distinctive—and obviously not muggle—silvery leaves.

Draco scanned the rest of the scene. With a burst of relief, he remembered he’d moved the dirigible plums to the south garden under a network of concealment charms.

Disaster averted, then. Relaxing, full of relief and a sense of magnanimity, Draco let Edward continue to inspect the wiggentree.

A sound—something like a rustle of leaves—pulled Draco’s attention away. It was nothing, probably the wind, but when Draco turned back to Edward, the old man had stepped into the middle of the path and planted his hands on his hips.

Edward let out a low whistle. “You need help with that blackberry.”

“It needs to be cut back,” Draco agreed.

“The girls are visiting next week. We’ll come then.”

Draco felt panic welling. “Oh, no. That’s not necessary.”

“Of course it is.”

Draco had no argument for that, because clearly it _was_ necessary. And he couldn’t bring himself to truly decline the help. The blackberries had nasty thorns and were impervious to magic. He’d spent three days hacking at the things last year and still had some of the scars; despite it, they’d nearly swallowed the garden a few weeks later. Supposedly, they were muggle plants, but what muggle plants grew like that? It wasn’t right. Maybe with some assistance, he could pull the roots up and be done with the bramble. 

“Actually, next week would be great,” Draco said. A week would give him time to move things around, place the more dangerous plants out of the way, and cast a stronger disillusionment over the creature cages and the less threatening but showy magical plants. 

He reached a hand to steer Edward away, but the old man stepped forward along the path. Draco’s hand closed on air.

Thank Merlin it was so early in the year. There were a few evergreens—mostly non-magical—but some of the more…interesting plants were still dormant or hadn’t sprouted yet. That wasn’t true for _all_ of them, though.

“Well, isn’t this interesting!” Edward said of the _Thaumatagoria vulgaris_ , whose umbrella-like leaves glistened with beads of water from the last rain. It was a spitting image of its cousin, the _Thaumatagoria officianalis_ , but hadn’t evinced any of the same spectacular effects as a potions ingredient. Draco kept it as a decorative feature more than anything. Although, despite its uselessness, it was still decidedly not muggle.

“Ah,” Draco said, but before he could get a hand on the old man’s shoulder, Edward was off looking at the next plant, as if he were on some bloody garden tour. 

Draco’s hand hovered near his wand. He bit the inside of his lip, half-tempted to hit Edward with a charm. Just a gentle _confundus_ so he could steer him back through the house and out the front door. But he’d never had to cast on a muggle before. Surely it wouldn’t break the Statue if Draco used magic to _prevent_ a muggle from discovering wizarding plants, would it?

A movement caught Draco’s eye. He glanced upwards, but immediately switched his attention back to Edward as the old man took a turn towards the greenhouse, where golden light glowed from within the glass walls, incubating the fanged geraniums. Oh, fuck no.

Draco rushed forward in time to prevent Edward from stroking the deceptively innocent-looking flowers. Visions of visits from the DMLE flashed through his mind: court summons and Statue of Secrecy violations, officers tramping around in his gardens, obliviators spending a week camped on his land, his prized plant breeding stock taken away, his creatures carted off.

“Ah, would you take a look at these? Crocuses. My mother sent along the bulbs. I still haven’t decided where to install them yet.”

Edward turned his attention from the geraniums. “Lovely, lovely. Elizabeth would appreciate these.”

“You’re right! They’re just her color, aren’t they? In fact, why don’t I send you home with a pot of these. I divided the bulbs and have more than I need.”

“She’d love that! You know, she found a jar of blackberry preserves she’d forgotten about and wanted to send that along to you, but in my old age, I forgot to bring it.”

“Well! That’s kind of her. No bother. You can bring it around next time. A fair trade for these flowers, I say!”

They emerged from the greenhouse in time to hear a sweet, high-pitched, musical whistle from nearby. Draco froze.

Edward glanced upwards. “What’s that, then?”

“A strange bird,” Draco said. “We get them here in the garden sometimes, you know, drawn by all the plants.”

Meanwhile, Draco scanned the screen of leaves above, searching for movement or a tell-tale flash of white fur.

“I’d say it sounds like a whale,” the old man said, looking around.

Draco laughed weakly. “A whale. In Britain? In a garden?”

Edward raised both eyebrows with amusement. “Stranger things.”

“You _do_ have an active imagination,” Draco muttered, even as he feverishly surveyed the periphery of his vision.

To Draco’s relief and dismay both, the old man turned his attention back to the plants.

“ _Don’t_ — Don’t touch those,” Draco snapped, and then quieted his voice. “They’re poisonous. Terrible rash.”

“That’s interesting. Do they have a medicinal use, then?”

“Ah—” A use in potions, actually, but Draco couldn’t say that. “Of course. The root. You don’t— You wouldn’t touch stinging nettles, would you?”

“ _Nettles_ have a use, then?”

Draco drew himself up. “Of course.”

“Fascinating. Something new to learn every time I visit.”

Edward moved on. Draco was too relieved at this to care that the old man was walking deeper into the garden. Draco offered a tour guide’s monologue of plant uses, all the while scanning the branches above.

A flash of movement. Draco turned in its direction and narrowed his eyes.

“A rose bush, is it?” Edward said.

“Yes,” Draco said, distractedly. “Wild. I use the hips in that cough syrup I’m sending home with you.”

Every muscle in Draco tensed. He knew, he _knew_ he’d closed the cages last night. And he was certain that if he checked on the cages now, he’d find them all locked.

“How _are_ you getting out, you little bastard?” Draco murmured.

“What’s that?” Edward said.

“Nothing.”

They approached the back corner of the garden. Edward wandered towards the blackberries, where they engulfed the garden's far wall.

“Almost have a mind of their own, don’t they,” he said in an amused way.

“Don’t they just,” Draco muttered, still scanning the air above.

 _There_. The flash of white fur he’d been waiting for. Ah-ha.

While Edward was absorbed in surveying the blackberry bramble, Draco inched along the pathway, his gaze set on the little patch of laurel leaves where he spied the white plume of a furred tail. The leaves rustled gently, and the tail slipped from sight. Draco narrowed his eyes.

Some sense—perhaps a holdover from Voldemort’s stay at the Manor, when Draco had lived in a state of hypervigilance; or maybe it was a touch of the _foreboding_ —made him turn his head in time to see Edward approaching the venomous tentacula. It’d been defanged, but the spiky mass of tentacles would still lash out if approached.

“No!”

Draco didn’t think. He palmed his wand and leaped towards the old man and the plant, a spell on the tip of his tongue—but it died there as his foot caught on an object in his path. He flew to the cobbled path. Metal clattered; a thick, dark, stinking liquid spilled over his trousers and shirt. Circe’s _tit’s_. He’d tripped over the bucket of fish emulsion and molasses.

Half-stunned where he lay on the cobbles, he watched as a small, white form whirled gracefully overhead like a miniature helicopter. Beady black eyes stared down at him. Draco was sure the tiny mouth smiled.

Then it was gone, landing in a bunch of ivy right as Edward jogged over (though “jogged” was a generous word).

Edward grinned down at him. “The clumsiness of youth,” he said, and Draco didn’t have the breath to refute him. He was miffed and half-drenched with rank-smelling muck, and could _feel_ the bruise blooming on his cheek and hip, but he accepted the hand Edward offered. He stopped himself just short of brushing off his trousers—his _sodden_ and _stinking_ trousers—and discovered that he was still clutching his wand.

“What’s that, then?” Edward asked, looking at the length of hawthorn.

“Nothing.” Draco hastily shoved the wand into his pocket, then winced. Oh, he would _have_ to clean that later.

“Well, that’s a mess!” Edward said cheerfully, regarding the brown liquid slicking the path.

“Indeed.” Draco took in the sight and then glanced away. It’d be easy enough to clean with a _scourgify_ , but not with the old man there. Until then, it would seep into the stone and into the moss between the cobbles. He’d be catching whiffs of sweet, rotting fish for months.

Draco raised his gaze. Over the old man’s shoulder, he caught sight of the venomous tentacula’s spiny arms waving in the air. His eyes widened, then he quickly schooled his expression.

“Well, I guess we ought to head in so you can change,” Edward said.

“Yes. Right.” Draco couldn’t keep the relief from his voice. “I’ll need to scrub this from my skin. Possibly burn these clothes.”

Chuckling, Edward began to turn back towards the venomous tentacula.

“No!” Draco snagged the old man’s arm. “No. I—want to show you the rest of the garden. We’ll simply…step around the stinking puddle of liquid fertilizer and be on our way. These here are the compost bins. The level of this one has declined by half over the winter. _Riveting_. You’d burn your hand if you stuck it inside. Biology is amazing, isn’t it?”

While Draco spoke, he cast a quick look around the garden, but he saw no other glimpse of white-furred movement.

He cringed as he wiped his feet with a rag at the back door of the house. Salazar save him if the smell got into the flooring. He ignored Edward’s chuckle and stepped inside. From her portrait, the duchess wrinkled her nose and gave him a narrowed-eyed look of disapproval, and Draco couldn’t even muster a look of admonishment for her.

To Draco’s dismay, Edward did not go to the front door, but instead stopped in the kitchen to finish his cup of coffee.

“Good, even cold!” he said. He paused twice to savor the drink while Draco stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, trousers drying slowly and stickily.

Edward lifted his cup in salute. “If you ever have a mind to open a shop in town, I’ll suggest serving coffee on the side.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

It was another several minutes before the old man allowed Draco to carry the box of remedies to the truck for him—a well-worn routine that involved Edward complaining of his arthritis and then declining Draco’s help until Draco had insisted no less than three times before finally admitting loud defeat and leading Draco outside. All the while, Draco prayed to Salazar for patience as his drying trousers grew colder and itchier. 

As Draco set the box down in the truck, Edward said, “The directions?”—which they’d left in the house—and Draco spent another minute assuring Edward he’d grab the paper himself, _no_ he didn’t need the company, he was quite all right. He dashed inside and performed a frantic search of the house before finding his notes on the floor near the duchess. He made a face at her and jogged back outside.

At last, the old man and the box of remedies were tucked into their respective seats, belted and secure, and the page of directions was folded neatly beneath the bottles. Draco took a deep breath of relief, and then Edward was rolling down the window to thank him again.

“Elizabeth will love these flowers,” he said, and Draco smiled thinly, resigned, as Edward segued into a story about his wife’s flowerbeds, their small garden as a whole, their cat, the raspberries, and the jams Elizabeth planned to make that year. Draco nodded along, staunchly ignoring the scent rising from his person.

“Look at you, turning into an icicle,” Edward said, abruptly. “Go inside! Have a warm shower!”

Draco retreated to his doorway and waved till the old man had backed down the long driveway and rattled out of sight, then he slumped against the door frame.

Almost at once, a distant crash sounded behind him. He slammed the door and sprinted down the hall.

“I say!” the duchess said as Draco ran by fast enough to clip the edge of a cabinet with his hip—the one previously uninjured. He cursed, stumbled, opened the back door, and hobbled into the garden, pain still spreading along his nerves.

A tower of clay pots had been knocked to the ground, spilling soil and yellow honking daffodils across the cobbles. The daffodils trumpeted their distress.

“Fucking hell.”

He righted the tower, scooped the dirt back into the pots, and placed the pots with their daffodils back onto the tower, grimacing as the flowers brayed in his face. He reached for his wand, encountered sticky damp fabric, crossed his eyes in disgust, and cast a charm to secure the stand and the pots inside of it.

“All right then, you little bastard.”

Draco stalked around the garden, looking for the culprit. This time, without a muggle to witness him, he let out a high-pitched whistle. He held the tip of his wand to his lips to augment the call, warping it to sound...well, a lot like a whale song.

A responding tune, almost questioning, came in reply.

Draco strode in the direction of the sound.

“ _Accio_ featherfee treats.”

A little bag flew to him. He poured a small pile of dried grubs onto his hand and lifted his open palm.

Leaves rustled. A hemp cord hanging over the pathway swayed. Draco didn’t move, only gave another whistle.

Seconds later, a bundle of white fluff appeared on a shelf above Draco, twitched its downy tail, and launched into the air. It spun gracefully towards him like a very big dandelion seed and landed on his hand. Tiny toes grasped his fingers, claws needling as the featherfee steadied itself.

Liquid black eyes blinked at him. The tufted ears—so like a red squirrel’s—twitched as it grabbed a grub in each tiny hand and stuffed them into its mouth. Normally, featherfees subsisted on nectar and some honey to satisfy their high metabolisms, but they were omnivorous and were gluttons for insect protein. This one did an admirable job of controlling slugs in the spring, when Draco was around to chaperon the little monster.

He let the creature eat for half a minute before walking across the garden with it.

As Draco had suspected, the featherfee’s cage was still locked.

“You little escape artist,” he murmured, and couldn’t keep the disgusted affection from his voice. “How in the name of Morgana are you getting out?”

The rats and the toy griffin in the neighboring cages looked at Draco with calm, innocent eyes.

“I know. _You_ lot aren’t the problem,” he said.

He opened the empty cage and placed the featherfee inside. It seemed perfectly content with this. Of course it was. Apparently, it could leave any bloody time it wished. He poured the remaining grubs onto the bottom of the cage with a grimace. The featherfee crammed another in its mouth.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Draco sighed as he closed the door and raised his wand to place extra security spells on it. He glared at the little beast, who stared right back, busily chewing.

“Voracious scoundrel.”

He set the rest of the garden to rights. He calmed the venomous tentacula with a thick application of fresh compost, which he applied from a distance, well away from the flailing arms. Then he cast _scourgify_ after _scourgify_ at the puddle of fish emulsion. Indeed, much of it had seeped into the pathway. Draco mourned. Finally, wrist stiff, he discovered another trail of pots and containers the featherfee had upturned. The little beast had been after something. Draco had no idea what, and this bothered him. Was there an insect nest he wasn’t aware of? A bee swarm? But a quick search and a few hastily cast charms revealed nothing.

Last, he fed the rest of the assorted creatures and checked that the featherfee was still in its cage. It gazed serenely back at him, cleaning its whiskers.

Draco dragged himself upstairs. He peeled out of his clothes, decided to vanish them, and had a second shower. The bathroom window finally deigned to be closed, and soon a luxurious steam filled the space.

Dry, warm, smelling of mint, and blessedly alone, he descended into the kitchen to have his tea and toast. Only a slight hint of old fish smell followed him around. He was resigned to it. Though, a nice cup of fragrant Earl Grey and a hearty slathering of butter and blackberry jam would set him right.

He pulled down the loose leaf and put the water on to boil, and—once he’d rinsed the dregs of Edward’s coffee from the mug left on the table—it was nearly as if the intervening episode hadn’t happened. Even the low-key sense of foreboding, which had returned to his gut, didn’t keep him from humming. It was a song Kara had taught him on her last visit, a disgustingly catchy tune. He’d have it stuck in his head all day now. Right then, though, he didn’t mind. The kettle hissed cheerfully. The toast sprang from the muggle contraption on the counter, a perfect shade of golden brown. The fire in the hearth stoked itself high. He poured the water for the tea. Opened the jar of jam. Arranged the toast on his favorite blue clay plate, the one with nice heft and a little chip on the edge. He smiled a curling sort of smile as he spread a thick layer of butter and then jam on each slice. It was a subtle science and art, achieving the perfect ratio, one honed through years of practice and experimentation.

As he set the final slice down and lifted his tea, he heard a screech.

He furrowed his brow and unlatched the window. There was another screech—this one closer—and a large tawny form burst in with a rush of cold air.

Draco leaped backwards and flailed his arms. Tea went flying. Something large and thin dropped onto his plate—a packet of letters from the leg of the owl that screeched again, made a broad turn, and swept back out through the window.

“Oh, for the _love_ —”

Draco caught the plate of toast before it fell to the floor and got a handful of butter and jam for his trouble. He extracted the letters from the ruins of his breakfast, cleaned them with a charm, and threw another charm at the tea splashed across the kitchen.

The green seal on the largest letter made his heart clench. All thoughts of breakfast fled. He sank to one of the kitchen table chairs, staring at the envelope.

 _Mr Draco Malfoy_ , read the name on the front. On the other side, embossed above the precise V of the envelope’s flap, was, _The Hermetic Institution of Potion Craft_.

The foreboding in his belly congealed into a ball of iron and sank, heavy and cold. This, then. This was the reason for the dread he’d felt since waking.

He summoned a knife, sliced the top of the envelope neatly, and extracted the thick, ivory-colored paper. 

_Dear Mr Malfoy_ , read the words in his mentor’s curling hand. The rest of the letter turned into a blur. He skimmed the three paragraphs before returning to the top and forcing himself to focus on the words, identifying the information he needed.

_…writing regarding your Potions Mastery Practicum…_

_…three months remaining…_

_…unable to grant another extension…_

_…if, by this time, you have not submitted a completed Mastery Potion for review, we must regretfully release you from the program…_

Draco folded the paper with surprisingly steady hands, slipped it back into its envelope, and placed it on the table. He sat staring at the open jar of jam and the wreck of toast. A cold wind curled in through the open window. After a minute, Draco rose and latched the window shut. He scraped the toast into the bin, cast a _scourgify_ at the plate, and stood at the counter for several minutes before realizing he was holding his empty teacup, staring at it. He placed it down and went down the hall.

He walked past the herb room to the closed door at the end of the short hall. He kept this one double-locked and under a disillusionment charm. With a muggle girl occasionally running amok, he didn’t take chances; he knew what kind of mischief kids got into even at a tender age. Although after today, he’d have to reconsider safeguarding his entire cottage. And what, then, was the reason for living _outside_ of the muggle village if he was going to be subjected to regular house calls by its residents? Might as well purge his home of all magical objects, plants, and beasts.

Might as _well_. He’d been subsisting comfortably on his practice of muggle herbology for years. If he was going to fail out of his potions mastery, what need would he have for featherfee fur or geranium fangs?

Draco rapped the doorknob with his wand and muttered a word to disengage the magical bolt, then unlocked the muggle-style lock with a little bronze key.

He opened the door to the sounds of gentle bubbling and the smells of camphor, spearmint, and burnt hair. The potions lab was twice the size of the kitchen, an impressive bit of wizard space that had taken him a month to set up. Two long tables dominated the room, each designed to accommodate five cauldrons. Only one was in full use, where he was brewing a number of the simple potions he sold through owl-order. Without his temporary journeyman’s license, he would have to give up the operation, but the space could easily be converted to use for herbal preparation. Although, he’d have to learn something about the muggle equivalent of owl-order because, if he started producing increased amounts of remedies, his supply would overwhelm the demand of the small village.

Maybe he’d make it into a library, then. But really, it didn’t bear thinking about yet. He still had three months.

On the far table, a single cauldron—brass—sat under a shimmering stasis charm. Books and notes spilled over much of the remaining surface. Volumes on muggle science nudged spines with Medieval herbal treatises. His notes were an arcane jumble of runes, alchemical symbols, and mathematical and chemical formulas.

Draco sniffed at his own hubris. _Muggle science_. Indeed. He stared, unblinking, for a long moment at his notes before slamming the notebook shut. If he’d listened to his mentor and chosen to reformulate the Potion of All Potential for his mastery practicum, he would have possibly—probably—been done by now, and he would have had the enhancing effects of _that_ potion while pursuing _this_ mad attempt to combine alchemical theory with muggle scientific theory.

Well. If he failed his mastery, he would deserve it for making that fatal error in judgment.

Before he could give into the temptation to tip the lone brass cauldron onto the floor, he turned to his other brews. He stirred the Pepper-Up and added roses to the beautifying potion before turning down the heat on the blood-replenishing draught.

He performed the actions mechanically; he could brew these asleep, if he were given to somnambulism. But it wasn’t simply competence that made a potions master. If that were the case, any advanced student would be considered a master coming out of Hogwarts.

No, it wasn’t competence alone that made the master. It was the deep understanding, the creativity and courage to experiment, the commitment to advancing the art and science of potion-making.

If Draco wasn’t prepared to contribute to the hallowed science of potion-making, then he didn’t deserve the mastery.

He’d give it a day. A day for the anxiety of opening the letter to settle. A day to wake up without the weight of existential dread in his gut and have tea and toast like a normal wizard without chasing wayward creatures and old men about the garden, overturning pales of fish fertilizer and upsetting all of the plants. Then, he’d consider his next course of action. Three months. He had enough time.

After checking on the progress of the simmering lacewing flies, he left the lab and locked it.

“You’ll be fine,” he told himself. “You’ve achieved far greater feats under more pressure than this.”

He stopped in the doorway of the herbal room. The smell here was quite different from that of the lab, sweet and tangy without the slight, discomfiting hint of putrefying flesh and singed hair. Was that why he enjoyed crafting muggle medicine? It was so much more pleasant to the senses than brewing draughts. Certainly, the work here was far easier on the eyes. Sunlight flooded the space. Who’d decided that all potion labs must be windowless, in any case?

His gaze fell on the far corner of the room, where a stray sunbeam slanted over a stool. The tortoiseshell button eyes of a stuffed rabbit stared back at him.

He slumped. He’d hex that young girl next time he saw her, so help him, Merlin.

He crossed the room and picked up the rabbit. How hadn’t he seen it before? Kara must have left it on her last visit. He could just imagine it: the little demon placing her toy right there, knowing Draco would find it and feel compelled to return it to her on his next visit to the village.

Despite himself, he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, Monsieur Rabbit. How would you fancy a new home? No?” He sighed and set it on the boxes he planned to deliver later that week. He’d return the wayward toy then. “Yet again bested by a child.”

Returning to the kitchen, he noticed another letter on the floor. He bent to pick it up but paused halfway when he recognized the elegant handwriting. Mother.

The sick, cold feeling returned to his stomach. He didn’t need to open the letter to know what was inside. News of his father’s ailing health, carefully coded in euphemisms. Inquiries into his progress with his potions mastery. And best of all: the questions. When would he return _home?_ When did he plan to start learning the responsibilities of managing the Manor?

Did he plan to begin courting this season?

He imagined the look of cool disdain she’d make if she saw him leave the envelope on the ground, and so he picked it up, because even if he was twenty-eight, and even though he was thousands of miles away, and even if he was infinitely exhausted by her missives, she was still his mother.

Though, she could raise her eyebrows as high as she’d like in his imagination, he wouldn’t read the thing now.

Maybe next week.

He dropped the letter into a drawer and began setting up his tea and toast once again. Because he was a creature of habit, after all, and nothing settled the nerves like a ritual involving food and caffeine.

Caffeine. L-theanine _._ Muggles really did have the most fascinating way of identifying and isolating compounds in plants.

He gazed out of the window at the dormant south garden and the rocky grassland beyond. A fine rain fell. The clouds hung low and grey, but a trick of the late-winter light had the pink blossoms of the plum tree glowing as if with their own illumination. It was Draco’s least favorite time of year—endlessly rainy, lingeringly cold, grey as a pewter cauldron, and damp in a way that seeped into one’s skin—but it had its moments of odd beauty.

Draco frowned. Along the fence-line, the skeletal tangle of his rose bushes shook. For a moment, he thought it was the work of a wind, but the plum tree nearby stood still; not a flower twitched.

The bushes shook again—a short, aggressive tremble that certainly wasn’t any wind.

“What the…”

Draco put down the jar of tea and leaned over the sink, peering hard out the window.

“Oh, _not_ again,” he hissed. He clanked the jar onto the counter and stalked to the front door. He shoved his feet into boots and cursed as he plunged into the fine cold rain. He reached for his wand, but his fingers met the flat material of his trousers. He’d left it inside in the kitchen.

“Bugger it,” he muttered, and set off towards the rose bushes and the three tall, willowy dairy goats ripping chunks from the branches.

He loved Rosemary and Heather like his own quirky, loving aunts—much preferable to his _own_ crazy aunt. He loved their farm and their big, black-eyed cows and the fluffy sheep. But their goats. Their goats regularly escaped through the fence to terrorize his fruit trees and his _prize rose bushes_.

He didn’t run. If he did, he would only spook the voracious monsters off, and good luck rounding them up, then. He wished he’d had a mind to grab carrots out of the larder.

The pale white-and-tan beasts watched him as he approached, fixing him with their devilish slit-pupil eyes while they rrrrip rrrrrrripped more branches from the roses.

“All right. Enough.” He clapped his hands.

One of the goats lifted her tail and dropped a load of pellets onto the ground.

“Shoo! Away with you!” He took a menacing step closer to them. They scattered a few feet, flicked their ears, continued to chew.

After another couple minutes, he’d convinced them to begin walking in the direction of his neighbors’ property. A good thing he’d left his wand in the house. He was tempted to hex the trio of them, and it would be just his luck if he spooked them so badly that they stopped giving milk, or if they came back to lay waste to his garden out of petty revenge. They were demon creatures. They’d do that.

Thankfully, once they’d accepted that he wouldn’t allow them to assault his roses any longer, they picked their way towards Rosemary and Heather’s land without much more trouble.

“That’s right. You know where your food bowls are. And they certainly aren’t here.”

They crested a low, craggy rise, and the fenceline came into view. There, small but steadily growing as she jogged towards them, came Heather.

Draco met her at the fence. She panted to a stop, flyaway hairs wild around the handkerchief tied over her head.

“Oh, you terrible girls! Draco, I’m so sorry. Were they…?”

“Eating my rose bushes, yes.”

“Oh, fuck.” She placed a hand to her head.

Draco couldn’t help but smile. Poor Heather. She was four-foot-nothing in height and had kind blue eyes the color of cornflowers, but she had the mouth of a dockworker and could lift one of the tall dairy goats in her arms. If asked to engage in an arm wrestling match with her, Draco would respectfully decline out of self-preservation.

“No great damage,” he allowed, having mercy on her. “Just a few branches.”

“Oh, bloody fuck, Draco. I’m sorry. Come on, you pests! The three of you. I ought to put you in boxes and nail them shut.”

Draco couldn’t help the little spark of empathy. He helped Heather bend back the broken part of the fence so the goats could squeeze through. Heather rattled a pale of food pellets at them and they slipped back to her side to shove their noses inside of it.

“Gluttons,” Heather said with disgust. Then, as they nearly ripped her arm from its socket in their enthusiasm, she snapped, “Watch it, now!” They backed off, jaws crunching.

She sighed. To Draco, she said, “Here. Trade you?” She held up a small wheel of cheese.

“Is this gouda? The aged one?”

“It is.”

“Well, bless you.”

She smiled. “I was going to bring it over anyway when I saw the girls were gone. I had kind of a feeling I knew where they went, so I brought it along with me.”

“A true sixth sense,” he said. “Sixth sense” was one of the many muggle phrases he’d learned after moving to the area. The concept amused him, as did superstitions like bad luck for breaking mirrors. Muggles might not have had true magic, but they had some ideas that came surprisingly close to the truth—and some that were laughingly off-kilter.

Heather placed the pale of food on the ground and let the goats tussle over the last pellets as she inspected the fence. “Let me put these girls away, and then I’ll come back to fix this. Summer can’t come soon enough.” She sent a significant look to the east, where the wire fencing gave way to a crumbling dry stone wall. Come July, half the village would turn out to help her and Rosemary replace the temporary wire fence with a new section of stone wall. 

“No worry,” Draco said. The rain was still coming down. His fringe stuck to his forehead in flat locks. His sleeves clung to his arms. He was shivering again. “I can even come by later and do it myself.”

“No, you won’t. You go back inside and get dry. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

They exchanged a few more lines of apology and thanks. That, at least, was _something_ useful he’d learned from his childhood: how to remain civil and polite and gracious even in trying situations. Draco agreed to let Heather come and mend the fence, though he silently vowed to return the next day and reinforce it with some charms to dissuade the livestock. In the past, the goats had proved rather immune to charms—likely, they just didn’t care, the stubborn things—but it would make him feel…productive.

He headed back toward his house, still woefully devoid of caffeine, but plenty full of adrenaline, with an empty stomach and a handful of cheese. He was mud-splattered and probably smelled faintly of goat. And why had he thought it would be charming to move to the country? Ah, yes. For the _quiet_.

Inside, he cast a drying spell over his person and stood next to the fire. He declined to have a third shower. He wanted his tea and toast and to feel marginally human again.

Of the last loaf of bread, four slices remained. He arranged them into the toaster and once again put water on to boil. It was morning yet. He could still get his day on track. 

That was when he heard the voice. So faint, he thought it was a product of his imagination. He paused, setting the butter knife down. No. In fact, it sounded like a real voice, and it came from beyond the front door. A wash of unease tickled over his arms. Something about the tenor of the voice struck him as familiar.

“Malfoy!” he was sure it said. No one had called him Malfoy in years. In the village, he was Draco, sometimes Mr Malfoy.

He checked the wards, but they didn’t indicate the presence of a wizard.

Frowning, he went down the hall to the front door.

“Malfoy? Are you there?”

Alarmed, he checked the wards again; they must have been malfunctioning because they told him no one was there.

“Malfoy!”

Draco curled his fist around his wand but didn’t draw it. With the other, he opened the door.

Harry Potter stood on his doorstep. Broader in the shoulder than Draco remembered, with scruff roughening his cheeks and chin, hair just as wild as ever, dressed in maroon auror robes.

And he was transparent.

The rain, heavier now, fell in a steady sheet past Potter and through him. He didn’t look at all wet.

A spike of painful, primal alarm went through Draco.

“I’m not a ghost,” Potter said. He looked down at his mostly see-through body. “I know what it looks like, but I’m not actually dead.” Then, when Draco still hadn’t said anything, he added almost sheepishly, “I need your help.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific TW: casual ableism during a conversation in which Harry and Draco insult each other. If you would like to skip that section it begins on the line "Potter smirked. 'You are as weird as ever'" and ends at "Draco fed the animals."
> 
> (Thank you so much to Shravani [[eletriptan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eletriptan/pseuds/eletriptan)] for being my sensitivity reader. Friend, I so adore and appreciate you.)

_I’m not a ghost_.

Right. Naturally.

Draco, at a loss, stepped aside and said, “Come in.” He felt oddly light, as if he were in a dream. His skin buzzed. “I’ll make you tea.”

He became aware of a screaming in the back of his mind. As he stepped into the kitchen, the sound crescendoed, and he blinked at the cloud of steam rising from the hob. It was the kettle.

Draco took the kettle off the heat. He was aware of Potter standing awkwardly just inside the kitchen. He studiously did not look at him; he focused on the task of pulling a second mug down from the cupboard.

“Er, I can’t consume anything,” Potter said. When Draco turned to blink at him, he added, “I’m incorporeal.”

“Right.” Draco poured tea for himself and spread butter and jam on the toast, and moved to the table to sit down. Potter continued to loom in the doorway. 

“I can’t sit, either,” Potter said, apologetically. “At least not properly on furniture.”

Apparently, however, he could approximate sitting by hovering over the chair across from Draco, which he demonstrated a moment later. Draco tried not to think about the fact that he _was_ hovering. He tried not to imagine the small space that must exist between his bottom and the seat of the chair.

Draco blew on his tea and stared at Potter. This was not eighteen-year-old Potter. This Potter was older, Draco’s age. His features had firmed up, lost the last of the roundness and softness of youth, though his eyes hadn’t changed. They were as green and intense as Draco remembered, even when translucent. His glasses were newer, small and square. They better suited his face. His semi-transparent face. Through it, Draco could see the pots hanging from hooks on the opposite side of the kitchen. 

He looked…in one piece. Healthy. Whatever had killed him—or hadn’t—had happened recently, and it hadn’t been the result of a wasting disease or messy trauma. He looked to be in good shape, the sleeves of his robes not hiding the hint of muscle in his biceps.

Draco took a bite of toast. Distantly, he was aware of the tart tang of the jam, the creamy butter. He chewed. Drank more tea.

Potter looked around the kitchen, gaze alighting on the hummingbird suncatcher in the window (catching no sun), the knife block, the muggle toaster.

This made Draco feel self-conscious. Draco should not have felt self-conscious. Harry Potter was transparent and had shown up unannounced at Draco’s house. Draco had a _nice_ house. Green potted plants in the window. Comfortable furniture. Genuine muggle appliances. The slight mess of a productive home economy. Meanwhile, Potter couldn’t even manage to look tidy in death.

“I like your toaster,” Potter said, starting to look uneasy.

Somehow, the sight of Potter’s discomfiture emboldened Draco. “So, you’ve established that you’re not a ghost and you need my help. I assume you mean with…your current state?”

“Yes.” Potter looked down at himself. “I was on duty. I was hit by a curse.” He made a face, as if this were something embarrassing to admit. Draco supposed it was. His teenage self would have been smugly amused by the news. His twenty-seven-year-old self absorbed this quietly. Potter looked at him. “Do you need more details?”

Draco snorted tea into his nasal passages. He coughed and thumped his chest. He was hysterical, that’s what. Absolutely losing it. “ _Yes_ , Potter,” he rasped. “I will need more details than _that_. But I’m not a healer. St Mungo’s exists for a reason.”

Potter scowled. “I spent two months with them. As you can see, that was pointless.” He spread his arms.

Draco _could_ see. He shook his head. “I still don’t understand. What are you doing _here_? Come to haunt me for past deeds?”

“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, I’m not—” Potter lowered his voice. “I’m not dead. Please don’t make me keep saying it.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “Why? Realize how ridiculous it sounds when you say it out loud? What are you, then? A hallucination? And why in Salazar’s name do you think I can help?”

Potter looked like he wanted to take a deep breath, but like he couldn’t _actually_ take a breath in his not-dead state and so instead spent a moment looking extra surly before he said, “Because _this_ is the result of a potion.”

“A potion.”

“Yes, Malfoy. That is what I said.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow and settled his chin on his clasped hands. “And yet I distinctly remember you mentioning a curse a moment ago, but maybe my hearing is going along with my sanity. Please, elucidate.”

Potter’s sullen expression so reminded Draco of teenage Potter that he nearly laughed. 

“It’s pretty simple, Malfoy. I was hit by a curse and a potion. We were on a case looking into illegal brewing. You might have heard of that sort of thing? There was a wand fight, and I was hit by a curse. The barrel of potion next to me was hit as well, and I was doused. It was one of the experimental ones we were investigating the brewer for, so we don’t know what it was. We don’t know the spell that hit me, either. 

“The only thing the healers at St Mungo’s were able to tell was that my current state probably has something to do with the potion and not just the spell. How they react together, or something. But since they didn’t know the spell or the potion, there wasn’t much they were able to do, as you can see. They recommended I visit potions experts who had more experience with the…esoteric theory of potions.” Potter flapped his hand and made a face. Then his expression darkened. “The ‘experts’ they recommended found me very _interesting_ and enjoyed poking at me like a test puffskein, but they were no help, either. 

“One of them gave me your information and suggested that you might be able to help. And I thought: I’m desperate enough.”

“Thank you,” Draco said, dryly. “Truly flattered.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who gave you my information?”

“Hell if I remember,” Potter said. “And it’s not like I can carry notes with me.”

“You could remember directions to where I lived, but not who told you,” Draco deadpanned. “I _might_ have bought that when I was twelve, Potter. Do you mean to insult my intelligence, or does it just come naturally?”

“If I could tell you, Malfoy, I would. Can we leave it at that?”

Draco pursed his lips. He could press Potter, but the other man stared back mulishly. This was the person who had stood down the Dark Lord. Draco wouldn’t get anything out of him that Potter didn’t want to give. Knowing the git, he would just as soon walk away, even if he _did_ believe that Draco was his last recourse. And Draco didn’t want to antagonize Potter. Though he was loath to admit it to himself, Draco hadn’t felt this thrill since he first began working on his mastery potion. This was a challenge he couldn’t pass up.

A curse involving a spell and a potion. Or possibly a curse exacerbated by a potion. Or interacting with. Or a potion whose effect was augmented by a spell. And could he rule out the idea that the spell and the potion were meant to work in conjunction?

“Malfoy?”

“Hm?

“Are you going to try to help me?”

“What makes you think that _I_ can help, when no one else could?”

“I don’t. But whoever gave me your name thought so. And, although it pains me to say it, you are literally my last hope. Unless you know of someone else who’s been living under a rock and could help me?”

“I’m sorry, Potter. Are you suggesting I live under a rock?”

“You might as well be. Do you know how hard it was to track you down?”

“Yes, I have an idea, seeing as I’m the one who made pains to make himself untrackable. Didn’t you stop to wonder if there were a reason why? Maybe I didn’t want to be found.”

“Well, I did find you.”

“Indeed.” He frowned, then looked away. Potter had no right to barge into his quiet space, as if Draco didn’t have his mastery potion to complete and two businesses to run. “You do realize I’m not a potions master, don’t you? Did your informant not tell you that, or did you forget that information as well?”

“I know.” Then Potter pursed his lips and said, “I thought you’d be up for the challenge, anyway.”

Draco closed his eyes. No. Absolutely not. Draco was not a teenager anymore. He would not let Potter appeal to his senses of _vanity_ and _competitiveness_ , of all things.

Him and his pitiful face and so-called forgetfulness and his unmistakable lies and still-messy hair and his attempts to _charm_ Draco.

Draco opened his eyes. He pushed aside his tea cup and plate, summoned parchment and a quill and, staring intently at the page, said, “Tell me all of your symptoms.”

***

All of Potter’s symptoms related to the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, and despite all of his protests, a ghost. He couldn’t feel or touch, which he illustrated—to Draco’s horror—by waving his hand through the corner of the table. He glanced at Draco. “Malfoy, are you all right?”

Draco, suddenly lightheaded, said, “Just fine.”

Potter also had no ability to taste or smell. Honestly, Draco thought it was a wonder he could see or hear.

“And you’ve already established that you don’t need to eat,” Draco said, staring intently at his parchment as he scratched notes; he still felt ill at the memory of Potter’s arm cut off at the wrist by the wood of the table. “Am I to understand your body doesn’t need sustenance in this state?”

“I guess not. No.”

Draco nodded and hummed, made a note of it. He could see Potter from the corner of his eye; he looked distinctly uncomfortable, so Draco didn’t say anything and continued to write, giving him time to spit out whatever else was on his mind.

A few moments later, Potter shifted restlessly and added, “And I, er, don’t have any other bodily needs.”

Potter sounded embarrassed. So of course, Draco said, “Like what?”

It was hard to tell if Potter was blushing, though he did look distinctly put out. His eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened and he said, “I don’t use the bathroom. I don’t need sleep. No sex drive.”

The word “sex” sent an odd, not wholly unpleasant stab of sensation through Draco.

“How unfortunate,” he murmured.

Potter stared stonily back. “This is difficult enough as it is, Malfoy.”

Draco held back a retort. He eyed Potter. He might have taken the opportunity to grind him a little more into the dirt, but he simply couldn’t find it in himself. For having just started his day, he was inexplicably exhausted. That, and Draco’s suspicions about the truth of Potter's condition were discouraging: that Potter had died but hadn’t accepted it yet. In that light, antagonizing him for the sake of it lost its allure.

“Is there anything else I should know?” he asked, instead.

Potter hesitated for half a second before shaking his head. Draco _saw_ it. He had eyes. The hesitation told him more than Potter’s response itself, and it sent a sharp jab of annoyance through Draco.

All right, then. He’d have time enough to get it out of Potter, whatever it was.

Draco closed the notebook. “You said it’s been seven months?”

Potter nodded.

“So, I take it we’re not working with a time limit. You aren’t…” Draco fluttered his hand. “…fading more, are you?”

“No. This seems to be my permanent state, now,” Potter said, and scrunched his face.

Draco laced his fingers on the table. “You do realize you’re likely immortal like this, don’t you?” At his own words, Draco felt an illicit thrill. _Immortal_. But he quashed that even before Potter’s expression turned stormy.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. I don’t want to live forever if I’m not _alive_.” At that, his scowl deepened. “I mean, I’m not properly living if I can’t eat or drink or fucking… _touch_ things, for fuck’s sake.”

Draco met his gaze calmly, though his mouth had gone dry. “All right then, Potter. No need to pop a nonexistent blood vessel.” And because _no_ , he couldn’t pass up _every_ opportunity to needle Potter, Draco put on his most airy voice and said, “If the Unspeakables were unable to help you, it’s unlikely my chances will be better. Whether or not I’m successful in my attempt to help you, this will take a significant amount of my time—not to mention supplies.”

“I’ll compensate you for your time, whether or not you’re successful.” Potter spoke through gritted—non-existent—teeth.

“And what is your offer?”

“What exactly are you asking, Malfoy? I pay in galleons, like anyone.”

Draco could use the money. He hadn’t been bluffing about the cost of supplies. Although he grew and collected many of his own ingredients, others weren’t feasible to produce himself; this tended to be true of the expensive ones.

Costs grew especially steep during experimental potions development. Draco might run dozens, even hundreds, of combinations before he discovered the right formula. The longer a brew was in development, the more costly it became.

For an established potions master, the resources required to develop new formulas were worth it. A successful new formula could sustain a potion master’s practice for several years, financing the development of yet more potions. But Draco, being a journeyman, didn’t have the license—or, frankly, the time—to develop his own line of potions. The common draughts he sold via owl order helped offset some of the costs of his studies, but not all.

Then there were the costs of feed for the creatures and delivery fees and repairs to the house, when he couldn’t manage those himself.

Despite the abundance of plants and the comforts of the cottage, Draco lived in relative poverty.

Yet. Something in him balked at Potter’s offer of galleons, never mind that he’d been the one to bring up the issue of costs.

The longer Draco hesitated, the deeper Potter glowered.

Draco sighed. “Very well. I will draft up a rough version of the contract. You realize any price we negotiate is subject to change, depending on the cost of ingredients involved and any other ancillary costs that may come up?”

“Yes,” Potter said, without hesitation.

Draco rubbed his quill between his fingers. Of course, the true limiting factor—time—was one for which Potter could not reimburse him. Draco would be entering his busiest season, with stock to move and the garden to plant and early spring flowers to harvest and process.

Then, there was the mastery potion and the letter with his mentor’s warning. _Three months._

“All right, then,” he said, and went to fetch a piece of fine parchment, the kind used for official documents.

*** 

While Draco drafted up the contract, Potter explored the kitchen. Though Potter’s legs moved as though walking, this was clearly out of habit or perhaps for appearances. Like a ghost, Potter glided. This was evident in the smoothness of his movement. That was distracting enough. But the git had the habit of sticking his face close to things as if myopic as a mole.

“Will you stop that?” Draco snapped as Potter inspected the details on the antique bone china set, leaning so close that he passed into the cabinet. Maybe it was seeing Potter move through solid surfaces, or maybe it was the instinctual fear that he _wouldn’t_ and would send the set crashing to the ground, but either way, it distressed Draco.

“Sorry,” Potter said, looking chagrined. “Your house is…unexpectedly cool.”

Draco put his quill down. “And just what is that supposed to mean, Potter?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. I like your house.” At Draco’s narrowed eyes, Potter rolled his own. “It’s not the Manor, is it? This is…much more down to earth. I was at least expecting a few swans or partridges.”

“Peafowl. We had peafowl.” Draco shuddered. “And I’d have to be truly mad. I spent my childhood being chased by those terrors, thank you kindly. No.”

The corner of Potter’s mouth quirked up into a smirk. Then the expression stretched into a full, almost wistful smile as he cast a look at the clay jars lining the shelf above. “It feels homey. Almost reminds me of Luna’s house.”

“Luna! Luna Lovegood?”

“Do you know another Luna?”

“Well, no. But you might. How should I know? It’s not like _I_ keep up with your social life.”

Potter smiled wryly. “No. There’s only one like her.”

Draco stared in astonishment because…was Potter making a joke about one of his precious friends? And including Draco in on it?

“Look at these ceiling beams,” Potter went on. His gaze raked across the ceiling, over the hooks and the things hanging from them. “Are those embroidered oven gloves?”

“My neighbors made them for me,” Draco muttered, picking his quill up again. He meant to return to work on the contract, although Potter was now peering at the little felted birdhouse hanging in the corner, and Draco couldn’t look away.

The lights in that corner of the kitchen gently brightened. Potter, in the act of scrutinizing the birdhouse’s colorful embellishments, glanced up with another of those wistful smiles. The flames in hearth blazed higher, too, and the kitchen took on a warm glow.

“Show off,” he muttered to the house.

“Why, Malfoy. I think your house likes me.”

Draco bit his tongue and returned to work on the contract. Potter continued his tour around the kitchen, murmuring words of praise to the shelves and walls—likely, to get a rise out of Draco. Draco refused to give him the satisfaction, even as the house subtly shifted in response: the pots turning just so to catch the gleam of the fire, the knives glittering, the light shifting to illuminate a row of painted glass jars.

“ _Honestly_ , Potter,” Draco finally bit out, slapping his quill down. “If you ever plan to let me finish this, will you stop flirting with my kitchen?”

“Oh. Sorry?”

Potter returned to hover over the opposite chair, and Draco didn’t miss how the kitchen lights dimmed. Draco frowned down at the contract, which he now had difficulty reading. He cast a _lumos_ and scanned back over what he’d already written.

From the corner of his eye, Potter moved his hands above the tabletop—never _through_ it, but close enough that Draco couldn’t help but grind his teeth.

He spent another minute staring at the parchment, trying to pick up his train of thought. Then he sighed. “Here. This is what I have so far.”

Every hair follicle on his arms prickled as Potter leaned closer to see the parchment, but Draco staunchly ignored the sensation. He explained the breakdown of the costs: facility fees to cover wear and tear on equipment, the charge for Draco’s time (it felt satisfying to quantify that), and approximate supply costs— _very_ approximate, considering Draco had absolutely no idea what would be needed for this project.

Occasionally, Potter interjected a question, but to Draco’s mild surprise, they were mostly reasonable.

“All right,” Potter said, when Draco had finished summarizing the document.

“All right?”

“Yes, Malfoy. It looks good to me. Am I supposed to say something else?”

“No,” Draco said, slowly. He’d just…never met a complete lack of resistance from Potter before, and it threw him. But to say that would make him sound mad. He gave himself a little shake. Then, seeing Potter’s curious look, he remembered he wasn’t alone anymore. He felt his face flush. He grabbed the quill and looked down at the document. “Good. Sign here.”

He added his own signature, then slid the parchment to Potter.

Potter blinked at it.

Bristling, Draco said, “ _What?_ ”

“Um.” Potter looked at his hands. His see-through hands.

Draco’s face flushed hotter. He snatched the document back. “You’re useless, Potter.”

Potter gave him an inscrutable look.

“So help me,” Draco muttered. His mind spun for a moment before he thought to call up a recording spell. To Potter, he said, “Do I have your verbal agreement to the terms of this contract, which are subject to change?”

Potter looked toward the ceiling, as if asking for patience. “Yes, Malfoy. You have my agreement.”

“Good. That’s settled, then.” With a flourish, he called off the spell.

He had to admit, it was nice to perform magic in front of someone; he’d been too long with muggles. He watched Potter track the movement of his wand with no small amount of satisfaction. Draco set the wand down on the table in full sight and easy reach—something he would never do if Potter were able to grasp it—and suppressed the little smile that tugged at his lips. “That reminds me. What of your magic?”

“What of it?” Potter asked, sullenly, dragging his gaze up from the wand to Draco’s face.

“Your magic, Potter. What’s become of it? If you’re not dead, you must have some measure of control over it still, even if you can’t wield a wand?”

Potter pursed his mouth. He spread his arms. “I’m—like _this_. Do you really think my magic functions?”

“Hmmm.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Potter said, crossing his arms.

“Nothing. It means ‘hmm.’ I’m thinking. It’s what you’re paying me to do, right? It’s what you sought me out for? Wandered the fells searching for me?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Draco laughed. “’Fuck off.’ Short for, ‘I don’t have a better comeback.’”

Potter opened his mouth, paused, and snapped it shut again, looking even surlier. Draco shouldn’t have been amused by this. Really, he _shouldn’t_. But it was so easy, and he hadn’t had anyone to goad in…far too long. Since he last spoke with Potter, in fact. No—before that, even, because the last time he’d spoken with Potter, Draco had to be on polite terms with him because the git was testifying for him in the Wizengamot.

Draco grinned at Potter for another moment, then narrowed his eyes in thought. “All right,” he said abruptly, standing.

Potter gaped at him. “All right?”

“Yes. All right. I’m going to grab a few references and see if we can’t begin to identify what kind of potion they used on you.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. What, would you like me to wait a week? Have something else on your schedule?”

“No. But I thought— _you_ have a life.”

Draco crossed his arms. “I’m going to take that as the compliment I’m sure you meant it to be. For your information, I did have plenty of other things planned for my day. Shall I list my responsibilities for you? But the sooner I solve your problem—or exhaust the possibilities—the sooner I can have you out of my hair. Does that satisfy?”

Potter blinked again, then scowled. “Yes, that satisfies, thank you.”

“Stay there. I’ll be back shortly.”

“What, think I’m going to steal something, Malfoy?” Potter held up his see-through hands.

Draco gazed back at him a moment with raised eyebrows. “Joke’s on you,” he said, and left the kitchen.

He waited till he was in the potion lab with the door closed and locked—not like that would do any good, really—to slump against a table. “Fuck,” he whispered. His hands were shaking. He looked helplessly around the lab. Merlin. Where would he even start?

He went to the bookcase, mostly to stare at it for a minute. He ran a finger over the spines. Well. Identifying potions and deducting their uses and makeup had always been a strength of his. With nowhere better to start, he would start with references on that subject.

When he returned to the kitchen, his heart gave a little leap of shock to find Potter sitting where Draco had left him. Maybe a part of him had been hoping he’d been hallucinating Potter’s visit; or maybe it was because he caught a glimpse of the space between Potter’s bottom and the chair, and the rose-pattern teapot through Potter’s head.

Potter looked at him and his eyes grew comically round. That snapped Draco out of his moment of alarm, and he dropped his armload of books on the table with a satisfying bang.

“What the hell, Malfoy? A little light reading?”

“For me? Yes. Don’t worry though, Potter. It’s beyond your comprehension level.”

“I know how to read, Malfoy.”

Draco allowed himself a little smirk and opened the first book. “Now,” he said. “Tell me what you remember about the potion.”

***

Several hours later, Draco was certain of only one thing: Harry Potter was completely useless.

He slammed the last book closed and looked at his notes. “So what I have gleaned from all of this is the potion smelled like licorice—by which you probably mean anise or fennel, but Merlin knows which one—and it, quote, ‘Had the viscosity of custard that hasn’t set long enough.’ Do I have all of that right?”

Potter’s arms were crossed at his chest. “What did you want, Malfoy? I told you even the potions masters at St Mungo’s had no idea what dropped on me.”

“And no one in your useless department thought of collecting a sample?”

“From where? I’m transparent!” He waved his hand through the nearest pile of books to illustrate his point.

Draco suppressed a grimace. “From the scene of the accident, you arsewipe.”

“No,” Potter said, shortly. Then he added, “They’d cleaned it up before they realized what had happened to me.”

Draco squeezed the bridge of his nose. Correction: Harry Potter’s entire _department_ was useless.

“Bloody-minded, incompetent…” Draco muttered, shuffling his notes, stacking his books.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Draco said, more loudly. “I’m done for now. My professional opinion? Every person in your department should be fired.”

“Oi!”

Draco slammed the final book in place at the top of the stack and slapped his notes down on it. “I think you’re in no place to defend anyone right now, Potter. Anyway. I need lunch.”

He moved around the kitchen, preparing soup and a slice of cheese from the wheel Heather had given him earlier. When he reached for bread to go with the cheese, he remembered he was out and grimaced.

All the while, he staunchly ignored the crawling sensation of being watched that itched over his shoulders. Twice, he refrained from snapping at Potter to stop staring at him. By the time he sat down with his steaming bowl of soup and cheese, Draco realized he had another problem.

“Where will you be staying?” he asked.

Potter, who’d been eying his soup, looked up and shrugged, expression too casual. “Not like I need shelter. And I don’t sleep.”

“So, what? You plan to roam the countryside while I work on your potion? And what if I need to speak with you?”

“Yell really loudly.”

Draco stared at Potter, the edge of his spoon resting on his bowl. Then he gazed down at the sludgy soup and the cheese.

“I need to get to the shop before it closes,” he said. Actually, what he needed was air—and time away from Potter to think.

“Huh?”

Draco stood and deposited his bowl and dish on the counter. He cast a stasis charm over both. Glancing at the clock, he said, “I need bread, and if I’m to get any today, I need to leave before the shops close.”

Potter was still looking at him with a look of slight surprise—and suspicion.

“Shop? You mean the muggle shop?”

“Yes, Potter. I even manage not to eat many of them while I’m there.”

“Funny Malfoy.” His expression flickered, and the look of suspicion deepened. “You aren’t selling potions there, are you?”

“Going to arrest me in that state, are you?” Before Potter could get a word out of his frowning mouth, Draco said, “No, I don’t sell potions to muggles. I—” He barely stopped himself from telling Potter that he sold _muggle_ remedies to the muggles, but that was hardly Potter’s business, anyway. He finished with a grand, “I always knew you were dense.”

Potter glared and opened his mouth, but before he could deliver a heated rebuttal, Draco said, “Stay here till I return. And _don’t_ go through my house without my permission, which you do not have. When I get back, I’ll…deal with you then.”

With that, he left the kitchen. He paused before the front door, remembered the weather, and pulled on his jacket and the boots charmed against water. He grabbed his basket and the umbrella. He would have preferred an umbrella charm or an _impervius_ to waterproof his clothes, but if he arrived in town as dry as a dementor’s breath, people would start asking questions.

The sky spread grey above him and before him. The rain had mostly let up, having lightened to a fine misty spray, but the wind had picked up and tried to pull the umbrella from his grip. 

Harry Potter sitting—hovering—at his dining table. Harry Potter cursed, and a ghost, and needing his help, and not having anywhere to stay. He’d said he couldn’t sleep. But what did he plan to do for days, weeks, possibly months while Draco worked on the potion? Haunt the moors?

He wished he had someone to talk with. At moments like these, he missed Snape with an awful pang, the miserable bastard. He could ask his potions mastery mentor for advice, but he didn’t want to admit he was working on another project, not after receiving the three-month warning from him. And his mother was out of the question.

***

On the way home, Draco did not bother with the umbrella. He cast his waterproofing charms with impunity and stashed his loaves of bread safely and dryly in his market bag with the extension charm. He was unlikely to encounter any muggles on his way home, but if he did happen across any of his neighbors, he could cast a quick enough illusion to look wet. In his bag, he also had eggs, milk, and clementines. More importantly, he had an idea of how he would proceed with Potter.

Despite the misty rain, the walk was pleasant, and he’d had a good visit with Grace at the shop, though as he approached the cottage, an inexplicable tension mounted in him. It grew more intense as he passed within the front gate and made his way up the path.

When he opened the front door, the entryway was quiet and empty. He shrugged off his coat. He padded slowly into the kitchen, practically itching with nerves.

The table and chairs were empty. The place looked just as Draco had left it, the plates and cups where he’d placed them, his chair pulled away from the table at an angle.

“Potter?” he said.

No answer. He moved across the hall to the sitting room. No Potter there, either. His annoyance grew—he had _specifically_ told the git not to move—but Potter was not in the herb or potions rooms, either.

“Potter?”

His annoyance mounted as he took the steps and found no sign of Potter on the first floor, either.

Draco muttered to himself. “Fucking hell, Potter. You’re like a child. Nothing has changed. Bloody-minded arse.”

He stomped down the steps, paused to glare at the bread on the kitchen counter where he’d left it, and went out the front door. He took a few steps down the path and stopped to stare, despairing, at the endless grey landscape. Most of the trees were still bare, and the flowers and herbs that would block the view come springtime were still seeds and roots in the earth, so the rocky, hilly countryside spread out mostly unobstructed. It was such a vast space. Theoretically, it should make looking for Potter out here easier, but it only made Draco feel how big the landscape was and just how hopeless it would be to find him.

Not even a day had passed, and he’d already lost Harry Potter.

Fuck it. He went back into the house. He wasn’t Potter’s keeper. Potter had sought _him_ out. And he was an auror, to boot; the man should be able to look after himself. Roaming around the countryside in a muggle area, half-transparent…

Draco needed more toast.

He stared moodily out the kitchen window as his bread toasted, then ate it at the counter with his soup and cheese, scowling as he munched. He brushed off his hands. He looked down at the kitchen table with all of its books and notes.

 _Smells like licorice_. Merlin. Not like Draco had any chance of figuring out a potion to help Potter, as it was. So it would be good if Potter disappeared on him. Anyway, if what Potter said was correct, then what he needed was probably some combination of spellwork and potion, which was out of Draco’s expertise.

He glanced at the clock. He found himself as he’d been that morning: namely, wondering what to do with himself. He was tempted to dismiss the thought of accomplishing anything useful and settle down with a cup of tisane, maybe read a nice book. But he had at least an hour of sunlight left, and he ought to do something in the garden before it got dark. That, or he could—he really should—work on his mastery potion. 

He made a face at that thought, and went out into the garden.

The look on the duchess’s face should have warned him. But Draco was used to her strange moods and indecipherable expressions, so he only returned the look she gave him before opening the back door and casting a strong umbrella charm to float over him, and didn’t think anymore about it.

As he’d feared, the soil in the wheelbarrow had been completely ruined by the rain. He cast a shield charm over the wheelbarrow and began the process of drying it out, little by little, stopping between each incremental drying charm to shove his hand into the soil and test its dampness.

“Malfoy.”

Draco leaped. Dirt sprayed.

Potter stood at his elbow, looking faintly amused.

“Potter! Don’t do that! Merlin’s tits.”

Potter looked at the wheelbarrow of soil and at Draco’s grubby hand. His eyebrows rose. “That’s a sight I never thought I’d see.”

Draco barely stopped himself from pressing a hand to his thundering heart. “What? Did you think I’d never get my hands dirty?”

A strange look passed over Potter’s face. Then the corner of his mouth ticked back in a not-quite-grin, and he gave a one-shoulder shrug. He looked up toward the sky, and his face lightened. He said, “It’s nice out here.”

The sight of Potter’s expression of enjoyment made Draco scowl harder. “I told you not to go around inspecting my house.”

“But this is the garden.”

“Right.” Draco sighed. “I guess it is. I _meant_ the premises, but— Never mind.”

Fact was, after the initial shock of being startled, Draco was relieved out of proportion by Potter’s reappearance. Not that Draco should have been relieved. He _should have_ been angry.

Potter eyed him. “I was getting bored sitting in the kitchen. So I came out here. Did you do all this? The birds are singing. It’s beautiful. And you have pets.”

Potter’s words— _Did you do all this?—_ made Draco feel uncomfortably warm and squirmy.

“They’re not pets, Potter. They’re— I use them to collect potions ingredients.”

Draco couldn’t read the expression on Potter’s face at that, and it shouldn’t have mattered to him, in any case. Potter gazed off toward the cages, and he gave another of those shrugs. Devil-may-care. It made Draco want to hit him.

“They look happy enough,” Potter said. “Hagrid would be happy with how you’re keeping them, even if— Well.”

“Thanks,” Draco deadpanned. He refrained from pointing out that he didn’t _slaughter_ all of them for parts, thank you very much. He wasn’t a complete savage. And in any case, if Potter ate meat of any kind—which he had while at Hogwarts, Draco remembered quite well—then he wasn’t in any place to judge Draco for what he did with the animals he bred, which lived perfectly happy lives in their spelled habitat cages, thank you very much.

Which—it occurred to him he would need to hide the spells on the cages, but then, what could Potter do? Arrest him for undetectable extension charms? With his see-through hands and absent magic?

Potter shrugged. “Fair treatment campaigns are more Hermione’s thing than mine. Potions ingredients have to come from somewhere, I guess.” He wrinkled his nose, though, which either indicated his thoughts on the origins of ingredients or his thoughts on the art of potions in general.

“How magnanimous of you.”

Potter grinned. “Did you get your bread?”

“ _Yes_ I got my bread, thank you.”

For some reason, this made Potter grin wider.

“Not that it should be of any interest to you, since you can’t eat any of it.” Draco crossed his arms.

He shrugged. “Whatever, Malfoy.”

Rain continued to patter onto Draco’s umbrella charm. The idea of continuing to work on the soil with Potter watching made his skin itch, so he reinforced the shield charm on the soil and said, “Come on. I’ve decided what to do with you.” He turned toward the house.

“Wait. What?” A pause, and then Potter’s voice came from just behind his shoulder. “You can’t _decide_ what to do with me.”

Draco suppressed a little jump at the sudden proximity. He opened the back door. From her wall, the duchess gave him the same curdled look she’d given him before. Her gaze went to Potter, and her expression soured further. Draco resisted saying, _A warning that my erstwhile house guest was floating about my garden would have been nice._

To Potter, Draco said, “Yes, I can. You’re an auror, you should know you can’t just go traipsing around the countryside like a lost spirit. But you also can’t stay in my kitchen twenty-four hours a day. So I’ll put you in the guest room.”

“The guest room?”

Potter sounded incredulous enough that Draco almost laughed.

“Yes, the guest room, as I don’t have any convenient dungeons available for you.”

Draco led him upstairs and spread an arm. “Here you are. The guest room. Because you are, much to my bemusement and dismay, a guest in my humble cottage until I get you sorted.”

It was a modest but cozy space, designed with his mother in mind: A full-sized bed with a down duvet in a gentle shade of green. Two wooden bedside tables, one on either side of the bed. A lamp in the shape of a flower. A chest of drawers. Curtains charmed to block the sun or go transparent to show the scene outside.

Potter took all of it in and said, “Malfoy, you realize I don’t sleep, right?”

“Yes. And now you can _not sleep_ in your own space, where you won’t terrorize the muggles and, more importantly, where I don’t need to encounter you every time I want tea.”

“Right,” Potter said. “Well, it’s a nice room.”

“It is. You’re welcome.”

“But you can’t stick me in here like a boggart in a chest. Anyway, there’s nothing to do in here. What do you expect me to do, stare at the wall?”

Draco gestured. “There’s a perfectly good shelf of books. Take the opportunity and learn to read.”

Potter gave him a wide-eyed look of incredulity.

“Malfoy, you’re mad.”

***

Of course, Draco found the room empty the next morning. He wasn’t surprised, though he was annoyed. He didn’t find Potter in the kitchen, either.

“Potter!”

“He’s gone outside,” the Duchess said with a sniff.

Draco found Potter in Draco’s own favorite little corner of the garden. This dismayed him and also made him feel some other, unidentifiable emotion, but it definitely had _nothing_ to do with pleasure. Draco was not _pleased_ in any way that Harry Potter had stumbled upon his quiet thinking space. His privacy had been violated.

At the sound of Draco’s footsteps, Potter looked up from where he hovered above the ground. He’d approximated a supine position and had been gazing up into the bare branches of the hawthorn tree.

“Hey, Malfoy.”

“Potter.” He stood stiffly, arms crossed, and glared.

Potter sighed. “Come on. You didn’t _actually_ expect me to spend the night in that box, did you? I told you.”

“I spent the night in my own box. Most normal people spend the night in a box.”

“Most normal people sleep, Malfoy. I am not going to stare at a ceiling eight hours out of every day.”

“So, what? You came outside to stare at the sky instead?”

“Yes, actually. It’s too cloudy to see the stars right now, but there are sounds to listen to out here, at least, and I don’t feel like I’m locked in a trunk. Far more interesting than a room, in any case. And I’ve got used to being outside.”

Draco glared more.

“The dawn was nice,” Potter said.

“You are impossible.”

Potter’s mouth pressed into a grim smile. “So I’ve been told.”

Abruptly, Draco had had enough. “It is too early to be arguing with a transparent man in my own garden,” he said, and turned.

Potter came into the kitchen a few minutes later as Draco was pouring his tea. Draco studiously ignored him. He placed the tea on the table along with a plate of toast with slices of cheese.

“So what are you going to do today?” Potter said, already “sitting” at the other side of the table.

“Pretending you don’t exist to preserve my sanity, while asking myself what in Salazar’s name I was thinking yesterday, and wondering if I’m not still in some extended and particularly vivid nightmare.”

Potter smirked. “You are as weird as ever.”

“I try.” Draco sipped his tea. See? Civilized. Calm. Tea, toast, then the day starts. No madness before then.

Potter’s fingers appeared to fidget, and Draco had the impression that they’d have been tapping against the tabletop if they’d had substance.

Draco swallowed his scalding tea and snapped, “Will you _stop_ that?”

Potter looked baffled. “Stop what? Malfoy, I’m not even making noise.”

“You don’t have to. I can imagine it perfectly well. No body, and you _still_ can’t sit still.”

Potter scowled. “Sorry, Malfoy. Not everyone has the ability to tune out of the world for eight hours a night. I’ve been awake for months. I’m fidgety. Deal with it.”

Tea and toast. Tea and toast first, before arguments with Potter. Before any conscious thought is needed.

“Fine. Will you go _fidget_ somewhere else?”

“ _Where?_ You don’t want me anywhere, Malfoy!”

“I lent you a perfectly serviceable guest room!”

“I’d go mad staring at the ceiling!”

“You’re already mad!”

“Yeah? If I wasn’t before, I certainly am now. You’re enough to drive Merlin bonkers.”

Draco sniffed. “Merlin was bonkers all on his own. He needed no help from me.”

To Draco’s surprise and dismay, Potter laughed. Draco looked on in silent shock as Potter’s shoulders shook. Eventually, Potter said, “You are an arsehole, Malfoy. But sometimes you’re kind of all right.”

Draco had absolutely no idea what to say to that. So he sniffed and drank his tea.

*** 

Draco fed the animals and then took his notes into the sitting room. Something was missing from the information Potter had given him. He’d thought that reviewing his notes again would give him an idea of _what_ was missing, but it was just this vague sense of not enough.

“All right,” he said, striding out into the garden. This time, he found Potter hovering atopthe garden wall, looking out over the fell. “Will you come down from there?”

“Hey, Malfoy,” Potter said, cool as could be. He floated to the ground.

Draco bit the inside of his mouth against the things he wanted to say. “I need you to tell me the details of your incident again. Now that I’m over the shock. Maybe miraculously you’ll tell me something I can use, this time.”

“There’s nothing more to say,” Potter said, but followed Draco back into the house and settled across from him at the kitchen table.

He stared at Draco, and Draco stared back. “Well? Why don’t you start from the beginning again.”

Potter frowned. “We were at the lab of a potion manufacturer developing potions without a license.”

“An illegal manufacturer, then.”

“Yes. I already told you this.”

“They had no license to produce potions whatsoever? Or was it that they didn’t have a license to develop?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know, Malfoy. Does it matter?”

Draco tapped his quill against the page and quelled his rising irritation. “Yes. In fact, it does, Potter. If they had a license to produce potions from certified formulas, they’ll have had access to approved ingredients suppliers. If they didn’t, they would have used a different supply chain. Not to mention their setup would be drastically different in both cases. Do you really know nothing about the cases you’re investigating?”

“You really are a congenital arsehole, aren’t you?”

Draco spluttered. “Congenital!”

“Yeah. You know, born like that.”

“I know what _congenital_ means. You must have learned that one from Granger.”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t. The potions manufacturers didn’t have a license to develop potions, but I’m pretty sure they had a license to manufacture. What else do you need to know? Some of the potioneers were present. One of them threw an unidentified curse at me. It got me and the potion barrel next to me. It’s the same thing I told you yesterday.”

“And yet it tells me nothing I need to know.”

“Well, that’s not my fault, Malfoy.”

Draco regarded Potter. He was trying to decide what really grated on him. Did it rub him the wrong way that an auror so clueless could be allowed on the force? Or was it that it seemed more and more like Potter was purposefully excluding something?

“And they were mysteriously unable to collect a sample,” Draco deadpanned. “There had to be other containers of potion in the lab. Don’t tell me that you were special enough to be standing next to the only barrel of potion in the building, Potter.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. And: they were experimental, Malfoy. How am I supposed to know what they do?”

“How, indeed. Honestly, I weep for our country.”

“Did you need anything else, Malfoy, before I walk away?”

“No. Nothing that you’re able to provide, in any case. Have a nice walk. Or, hover, as it were.”

“I’m sure you think you’re hilarious.”

Draco gave Potter his most pleasant smile and experienced the joy of watching the other man’s expression turn uncomfortable.

Vaguely, Draco realized he almost _enjoyed_ interacting with Potter as an adult. So much easier and more satisfying to one-up Potter.

As soon as Draco was alone in the kitchen, the fire in the hearth went out.

“Oh, get lost,” he snapped at the house.

It occurred to him that Potter still hadn’t told him anything useful.


End file.
